(Tr. 1)
Magnificent, but who without hopes delivers himself for not having
praised the country in which to live when ennui has grown resplendent
out of the sterile winter.
(Tr. 2)
His neck will shake off this white agony.
(Tr. 3)
As if he were fashioning the steel of souls, hammers with great full
strokes, the immense plates of patience and silence.
(Tr. 4)
The savage wind of November, the wind, have you met it, the wind at the
crossroads of three hundred paths...?
(Tr. 5)